


Controlled

by dmnutv_archer



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Light Bondage, M/M, Pegging, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmnutv_archer/pseuds/dmnutv_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifth fic in the Ruled series. (Previous fics: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/279699">Ruled</a>, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/284695">Owned</a>, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/288078">Fractured</a>, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/293929">Damaged</a>.)</p><p>While Natasha remains unconscious, Clint waits, thinking about their relationship, hoping Loki will come and finish healing her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Controlled

Three weeks, and she had not moved. No flicker of her eyes. No twitch of her hand as it sat limp in his, day after fucking day. He left her side only when the nursing staff threw him out so they could take care of her. She would hate knowing someone else was keeping her clean. He hated it. Hated this goddamned room, with its sterility and stale air and the faint hum of the machines monitoring her and feeding her and doing all the things she could no longer do for herself. Maybe ever.

The word of a liar was all he had to hold onto. The hope that Loki had been truthful that day. The day the bastard nearly killed her.

 _Allow her to sleep. It will take time for what I’ve given her to fully heal all the damage she suffered._

It would take time. But this long? Three weeks of waiting. Three weeks of visits from everyone. The concern. The platitudes. The attempts to cheer him up. And of all those who came, Thor had been here most often. A looming, awkward presence that he hated, yet needed. Because Thor alone would be able to find Loki and bring him here to finish the healing he began.

Unless Loki had lied. Unless this was all a sick fucking joke. He didn’t seem the kind of guy, or god, or whatever the fuck he was, who would care about someone just because they had a one night stand. Loki didn’t care about anything. Did he?

Clint ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. Christ, he was exhausted. Waiting, with nothing to do but worry and run these thoughts through his head over and over. What if Loki lied? What if he told the truth, but failed to heal her? What if she would never wake? _Ever again?_

Then there was the guilt. They had become separated during the battle. Not that she was incapable of defending herself. Hell, she was better at self defense than he was. But nothing could have protected her from that building collapsing on top of her. Maybe if he had been by her side he could have done something? He knew better than to believe that. At least rationally.

Love wasn’t rational though.

He flexed his hand. Formed a fist. Turned it over. The knuckles were scuffed from when he had punched the wall, but he hadn’t done any real damage. Earlier, while talking with Thor, he had lost it. Showed his anger and frustration. An irrational slip of control that revealed how all this was slowly destroying him. Maybe that was good though. He suspected Thor had finally gone off to locate his batshit crazy brother. At least, he hoped that was why he suddenly strode out as if he had some purpose. Anything was better than the blonde giant standing here, watching over Natasha as if this were all somehow his fault. Hell, maybe it was. Who knew the truth about what had happened between the brothers before both ended up on Earth? Certainly none of the Avengers. Thor always protected Loki, despite fighting against him. That they still had some attachment was never in doubt, but never discussed in front of Thor either.

And _why the fuck_ did he tell Thor about Natasha sleeping with the evil bastard? He had sworn to her he’d never tell anyone about their little bet. It had been her idea, of course. They both were attracted to Loki, and neither cared to hide their lust for him from each other. But Natasha chose to use it as a way to push the boundaries of their already extreme sex life. He lost the bet. Oh, for a moment when Loki appeared at their table, as if from nowhere, and interrupted their dinner he thought he might have a chance at winning. From the intense way Loki dragged his eyes over him, with the faintest curve upward of those perfect lips, Clint knew the gorgeous bastard wanted him. It was all he could do not to drop to his knees at Loki’s boots. But Loki then turned away and focused solely on Natasha. He must have used some mind control because that was the last thing Clint remembered until he woke the next morning to Natasha straddling him and pulling a dollar from his wallet, then waving it at him. She then made him suffer for losing. He loved every moment of it. But what about her?

Maybe something more than sex happened that night she slept with Loki. She had said he was good, _really_ good, and couldn’t wait to get him into their bed so they could share him. But what if it was more than that? What if she actually felt something for him? Or he felt something for her? Why else would he choose to save her? If he had saved her like he claimed.

In the aftermath, when Loki carried her from the ruins, her body broken and covered in blood, she was alive. Seemingly saved by the hand that almost killed her. He was no longer the deranged, yet tightly controlled adversary obsessed with ruling Earth even if it meant destroying everything and everyone in his way.

Loki had been calm. Too calm, as if in shock. He even trembled while setting Natasha into Clint’s arms. Not from anger though. More like he was shattered by what happened. And what about the tears? What the hell was that about? Clint would have cried over her at that moment had he not been so enraged after seeing her go down, surely crushed to death. But he had a RIGHT to cry over her. What right did Loki have?

Maybe they were fake tears. Meant to manipulate Thor? Possible. Even probable. The whole mess might have been calculated to manipulate them all. And what about the stunned expression on Thor’s face when he found out his brother had slept with her? Was that _jealousy_?

Well, Loki was attractive. No. He was erotic as hell. Sex on two long, lean legs. Powerful. Intimidating. Fuck, Clint couldn’t NOT want that. He thrived under the dominance of another. And a woman or man made no difference to him. But Loki? Fucked up and unhinged? Yes. He would submit to that, willingly. Even now, after all this, he still found himself fantasizing about being fucked by the hot, powerful god who was not quite right in the head. If the bastard would come wake Natasha up from this goddamned nightmare, maybe he’d find out. A little show of thanks? Allow Loki to use him any way the nut job wished?

Shaking his head at his sick mental wanderings, he stood and stretched both arms over his head. The nurses were due any minute to bathe Natasha. Time to go work out, then to the range. Nothing else erased everything like drawing a bow, focusing on a target, then letting loose, repeatedly. It would only last while he was shooting, but was enough to give him some relief during this suspended state of hell.

He slid his hand over hers, then gently squeezed. Nothing. Almost like touching someone dead. It killed him to watch her body wasting away in this wretched bed, day after day. All that agile strength she worked endlessly for in the gym. Gone. But at least she was still alive.

One last look at her face. Beautiful still. But colorless, aside from the dark smudges beneath her closed eyes. No life. No spark. Natasha at peace. What a fucking nightmare. He missed her fire. Her power. Her dominance. This woman he often hated, yet loved more deeply than he thought his brittle heart capable of.

He opened his fingers from around her hand and touched a kiss to her cheek. “I won’t be long,” he said, aloud as if she could hear him. Then he forced himself away from her bed and out the door.

 

#

 

Clint tossed his glove and bracer onto the table and stripped off his workout clothes. He left those in pile on the floor, then collapsed on the bed. The room’s cool air felt good against his sweat drenched skin. Before showering and returning to Natasha’s side, he allowed himself this moment to linger in the odd state of mental peace that always came from shooting. It was almost that same post sex high that came after an intense session with Natasha.

Fuck. That simple thought blew him right out of his momentary relaxation. Nothing was like how he felt after being with her. The way she controlled him in every way, freeing him completely to be nothing more than her boy. God he fucking loved that. Loved her. On his knees. On his back. Bound. Unbound. Any way she wanted him.

He felt the faint stirrings of arousal deep in his gut. Wow. It had been a while. He jerked off a few times in the shower during the past three weeks. Only to relieve himself though. Not because he actually felt aroused. It seemed somehow wrong while she remained unconscious, maybe forever.

But now, thinking of her, he couldn’t prevent the sudden onslaught of vivid memories crashing through his brain.

 

#

 

Though they had known each other for years, as part of the Avengers they were now forced into a close working relationship. That led to them pushing each other’s buttons simply because they could. It began as barbed comments about their obsessive work out schedules. Occasionally they would together toss insults at another Avenger. Nothing was quite like the expression on Thor’s face when the inevitable hammer and dick jokes started. But none of that teasing held the ever building tension during their competitive exchanges. Who carried superior weaponry. Who was the better marksman. Through all the taunting he started to find himself increasingly attracted to her. More than _fuck, she’s hot!_ It went beyond the perfect curves of her ass and tits, and her pretty face. She was strong, confident. And had no fear of putting him in his place. Nothing made him harder. But he had not known the developing attraction was mutual until one night when they crossed paths on their way to their respective ranges.

As usual, he threw a snide comment at her. “Try a real weapon. One that requires true skill, without help from all the bells and whistles.”

Natasha flattened one hand against his chest. “Not another fucking word,” she ordered, then slammed him up against the wall.

Laughing, he pushed back against her hand. “Whatever...”

But she pressed harder, then gripped his neck with the other hand, closing it around his throat. “A smart-mouthed little boy playing with his bow and arrows. That’s all you are.”

The scorn in her voice, and the way she now looked at him with absolute contempt stunned him. “Natasha?” he gasped.

“Shut it. Behave, and I _might_ make you a man.”

Then he realized this was no game. Whatever was happening between them had just become real.

His heart raced, blood thundering through him, converging in his groin. His mouth had dried completely. Even if he wanted to speak, there was no way he could.

He nodded.

She leaned forward, hovering her mouth over his. Those eyes, alive with fire like he had never seen, held him motionless. Oh fuck, he wanted her to kiss him. Needed it. Shaking, he focused on his breathing. Tried to ignore her fingers caressing the back of his neck while her hand tightened around his throat.

 _Calm. Stay calm. She is in control. Total control._

A faint smile lifted her lips. “Good boy. Now follow me.”

She spun on one foot, the graceful move betraying her ballet training, then strode away. He followed.

 

#

 

Caught in that memory, he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He hated her. He loved her. He belonged to her. His cock stood erect now, hard and begging for his hand. But she would forbid him to touch himself. So, although she remained in a coma, away from him, he obeyed her. Instead, he allowed his building lust to return him back to that first night.

 

#

 

He followed her into her bedroom, torn between the taut anticipation burning in his gut, and his brain’s wary observation of every detail upon entering a place he had never been before. The lighting was subtle, but not dim. Bright enough to see the surprisingly grand four poster bed draped with lush cashmere blankets and piled with pillows. What the fuck with the colors? Pale lavenders and whites and pinks? And were those _lavender fucking roses_ in a crystal vase on the bedside table? As he began to wonder at this unexpected hint of stereotypical femininity, she slammed the door shut behind them and flipped the lock. The dead bolt slid home, the abrupt click jolting him back to now. To why they were here.

A sharp finger prodded him between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward, toward the bed. “I’m going to fuck you just like all your men do.”

“All?” he exclaimed, spinning around to face her. How the hell did she know what he did in his free time?

“You think I don’t know what a whore you are? If it walks, you’ll fuck it. Or, I should say you’ll beg it to fuck you.”

Well, shit. He had thought no one knew he was bi, and into subbing, usually with men. Though denial seemed idiotic at this point, he stammered, “Uh... I...”

She raised her hand, cutting him off. “Not another word unless I give you permission to speak.”

Holy fuck. Could she know him any better? How the hell...

“Do you understand?” she barked.

He started to open his mouth, to say yes. But she glared at him. So he simply nodded.

“Good boy. While we are here in this room you are mine. My toy. Understand?”

Again, he nodded.

She took his hand, gently holding it. For a moment the stern expression slipped. “I’m not into giving pain Clint. I will demand your submission, but if you want me to really hurt you, I can’t. I won’t.”

The briefest glimpse of her vulnerability nearly felled him to his knees. What the fuck was happening to them? Aroused already by her promise of dominance, this hint at something even deeper by her revealing herself in this way stirred his emotions, drawing them through his physical need, feelings and desire tangling together.

Acutely aware that his life, his entire existence, had just shifted, he then did drop to his knees at her feet. Looking up, meeting her strong gaze but without challenging her, he quietly said, “I want whatever you want to give me. Whatever pleases you.”

She smiled down at him, a soft, pretty smile at first. Then the fire again lit on her eyes, and the smile widened, showing her teeth. Pretty became predatory. He nearly came in his jeans.

“Strip,” she ordered.

 

#

 

The vivid past crashed through him, bringing forward the exquisite torment of just how perfectly Natasha controlled him that first night, and ever since then. He rolled onto his stomach, clutching the sheets, pushing his erection into the bed, desperate for some friction. Anything but his own forbidden touch. He moaned into his pillow, then lost himself again in the past.

 

#

 

Helpless. On his back, bound to the bed by leather cuffs tight around his wrists and ankles. Hours it seemed she kept him this way. At first she only teased, arousing him by slowly undressing herself, revealing the perfect curves of her glorious body while acting as if he weren’t even there. Poured herself a glass of wine. Plucked a rose from the vase, and held it beneath her nose, breathing deep. Sighed, as if bored. He couldn’t look away, wishing she would notice him lying there in her bed, naked and bound. The anticipation simmered inside him.

After what felt like hours waiting, she crawled onto the bed and straddled his waist. She glared down. “I know you’re a whore for cock. But how do you feel about this?” She slid forward, then placed her knees and either side of his head and tipped her hips. He tore his obedient gaze from her face, ran it down over her tits, then focused on the small strip of red hair bright against the creamy pale skin. And below, to her own arousal. Between her legs she was wet. Jesus fucking Christ. He stifled a groan. This was getting her off as much as him.

She grabbed the back of the bed with both hands, then lowered herself to his mouth. “Lick,” she ordered. He obeyed, darting his tongue out, dragging it up between the soft folds of skin, then swirling it over her clit. He strained against the cuffs binding his arms to the bed, wanting to hold her against him while he tasted her. But she was in total control. She threw her head back, and ground her pussy into his face as if fucking his mouth. “Mmmm. Good boy. That’s right. Taste me.”

She tortured him this way until her thighs closed hard around his head, and she shuddered over him, moaning, coming. Then she left him there, his cock screaming for something, anything, to relieve the violent ache pulsing in his groin.

Soon after, she walked back into the bedroom wearing only a strap-on.

Stunned, he stared at her as she strode over to the bed, then turned sideways, displaying her toy. Holy shit. When she said she was going to fuck him like all his men did, he had not expected THIS.

She cupped her hand around the dildo, and ran it along the realistic length, stroking it. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”

The motion of her hand, so like a man jerking off, stole his ability to think. He felt his jaw hanging open. But he also felt his own cock pulse, wanting that very same touch.

“Answer me, whore!”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Yes. That’s what I want. For you to fuck me.”

“Where?”

“In the ass.”

She crawled onto the bed and again straddled him. “Taste it first.” Then she thrust forward, burying it in his mouth.

He opened wide, accommodating the entire length, marveling at her ability to mimic a man’s thrusts. He sucked her off as if it was real, running his tongue along the sides, then over the head, moaning. With each hard thrust he opened his throat, accepting it deep, nearly swallowing it. She might not come this way, but he would show her just how well he could take care of a man. Eventually, she pulled out, then traced her fingers over his lips. “Such a talented mouth you have. Someday I might give you a man to use your skills on. If you are a good boy.”

While he enjoyed her praise, and the promise of her allowing him to continue seeing men, she crawled off the bed, her movement graceful, with minimum effort. The anticipation of what was to come soared inside him as she took a bottle of clear lube and a small towel from the bedside table.

She really was going to fuck him. And clearly knew what she was doing. Her confidence had always impressed him, whether in weaponry or self-defense. But now, seeing that same self assuredness in a sexually dominant way, he found himself feeling more than admiration.

Frightened, maybe? Nothing she could do to him physically would bother him. But deep inside, he was scared shitless by what he sensed was happening between them.

But he wanted it. Wanted this. Wanted her.

The mattress beneath them barely shifted as she slipped back onto the bed and unbound his ankles. Then she grasped each leg behind his knees and spread them wide, exposing him fully. “I want to see your face while I’m fucking you.”

She squeezed some lube onto the dildo and ran her hand over it, coating the length. Watching him, she slid her fingers down his ass, gently circling, then easing one inside him.

“Tight...” she said, then slipped another lube slicked finger in. Biting his lip, he pushed into her touch, taking as much as she could give him. But it wasn’t enough. She withdrew her fingers and wiped her hand on the towel.

Now kneeling there, rubbing the dildo against his ass while staring down at him, she looked like a fucking goddess. Gorgeous curves and glorious soft skin. Red hair like a fiery halo, eyes alight with desire. For him.

“Tell me what you want,” she asked, her voice now low, sultry and rough and demanding.

He raised his legs back as far as he could, opening himself up fully. “Fuck me. Please.”

Glaring down him as if she owned him, she rolled her hips forward and eased the dildo into his ass. He arched off the bed, fighting the bonds around his wrists while she fucked him. Long, deep thrusts, missing his prostate. His untouched cock ached. He moaned, more a pathetic whine. So much pleasure, yet not enough.

Over him, her tits bobbed, yet another tease. She lowered herself until her nipples grazed his lips. He lifted his head, strained to taste her, but she pulled back, laughing.

He could not take any more. Pushed beyond his limit, he closed his eyes and stopped fighting.

Lips soft touched his. A kiss. Then she pulled out slightly and rotated her hips. The head of the dildo now massaged against his prostate. Sharp pleasure, nearly pain, spiked through his entire body. He gasped, and her kiss deepened, tongue reaching into his mouth, exploring, meeting his.

Then her hand closed hard around his cock. Finally.

He tore his mouth from hers, straining against the leather straps securing his wrists to the bed, and slammed his head against the pillow. She jerked him off, her touch rough, in time with her short thrusts against his prostate. “Natasha...” he moaned, no longer caring that she hadn’t given him permission to speak.

“Come for me!” she ordered, forcing the dildo deep inside him and clamping her other hand over his mouth. He obeyed, thrusting into her touch, his cries of pleasure muffled against her hand while the violent orgasm shook his entire body.

After, while he remained bound by his wrists to the bed, lost in the remnants of pleasure slowly receding from his body, she licked the come from his stomach. Her touch was gentle, though the fire remained burning in her eyes. “You belong to me now. All of you. Even this.”

 

#

 

His fingers clawed the bed, the air, anything to keep from touching himself. To deny his urges in favor of the memory of her power over him. But he was too far gone. Groaning, he gripped his cock and slid his hand down, then up. Hard, rough, the way she liked watching him jerk off. It only took a moment. Memory had already brought him to the very edge. One last thrust into his hand and he came, spasms of pleasure shaking his body while he rode out the brief darkness.

While slowly regaining awareness, he stared up at the ceiling, his hand now closed loosely around his spent cock. Had she been here, Natasha might have made him trace his fingers though the come spattered over his stomach and chest, then lick them. Or she might have cleaned it off herself, with her tongue like she had that first night.

It had been months, and countless other encounters between them, since then. Yet he recalled every detail. Every touch. Every stifled moan. The faint creak of leather as he struggled against his bonds. Even the scent of the roses beside her bed. And after, when he lay protected in her arms and fell asleep.

He also remembered how she ripped his heart from his chest and took it for her own. How he willingly gave it to her. He would do anything she asked of him.

Here, alone in his bedroom, still recovering from the haze of orgasm that had been inspired by her, he could admit the truth. If he was ever going to cry, this was the moment. But words came instead of tears.

As if praying to her, pleading with her, begging her, he said, “I love you Natasha. More than this shitty fucked up life. Please come back to me. Please...”

“You really do love her.”

The words spoken aloud in a clear, familiar voice hung in the air over him. Then, a violent crack shook the floor beneath his bed. Adrenaline fired through his body, hurling him to his feet. He landed just short of where now stood a tall figure draped in black leather and green silk, and crowned with golden horns.

For moment, the majestic beauty, this source of so many dark fantasies, and absolute hatred, caught him. Unable to breathe, he froze.

But his training kicked in and seized back control. He flexed his hands, wishing for a weapon. “What the FUCK are you doing?!”

Loki’s mouth curled into a lurid smile. “Not you,” he replied while dragging his eyes slowly up Clint’s naked body. “At least, not yet.” His gaze stopped at the come smeared on Clint’s chest. He blinked, slow, a seductive dip of his eyelashes as he touched the tip of his tongue to his lips. “Seems you’ve already taken care of yourself this evening.”

Without looking away from the devious bastard, Clint grabbed his workout shorts from the floor and pulled them on. Not that he felt any more dignified. Furious at this vile breach of his privacy, he paced across his bedroom. “Fuck you! You fucking unhinged motherfucking lunatic!”

Loki’s sensual gaze now hardened into a stern glare. “Language, Clint? Must you be so crude? How many times can one use _that_ word in a sentence? And is that _really_ how you wish to address me?”

Maybe he should have felt some stirrings of fear given Loki’s menacing presence. But those condescending words and haughty tone only further infuriated him. “I’ll fucking _address_ you any motherfucking way I want. Fucker!”

“Hmm. And here I thought to ask for your help. Well, perhaps my brother was mistaken.” He turned on one booted foot, that dumbass green cape swirling around him, and strode toward the door. “Obviously you do not wish me to finish what I started with Natasha.”

Finish what he started? What the fuck did that mean? Some creepy Asgardian double entendre?

Before he could shoot back with a wise ass remark, Clint shut his mouth. What the hell was he doing? If Loki had come to heal Natasha, and this wasn’t just another part of a sick game, then he needed to calm the fuck down. Right now all he was doing was insulting Loki and chasing him away.

“Wait!” he shouted.

Loki paused, then turned. Now he prowled back across the room. Somehow the length of green fabric flowing behind him didn’t seem so stupid. Loki was regal, and all this leather and metal and that helmet with its curved devil horns only added to the god’s potent aura.

Clint’s knees started to buckle. But he caught himself, and snapped fully upright. No goddamned way was he going to give into his fucking kink.

But Loki continued striding toward him, until he halted, less than an arm’s length away. He looked down at Clint, as if from upon a throne. Christ, just how tall was this bastard? Then, he tipped his head.

Clint took that as permission to continue. He cleared his throat, fighting for some calm while his body threatened to reveal just how badly he wanted anything Loki might deign to give him. “Thor was right. Natasha needs your help. Though I can’t imagine how I can be useful.”

“That will become clear when I return tomorrow. The healing may require a day or more though. You will assist me.”

Jesus fucking Christ on a bike. How could a man, a god, be so insufferably arrogant, and obnoxious, and insane, yet still arouse him like this? He wanted to tell him to go shit in his fucking helmet. But knowing that Natasha needed Loki if she were to ever heal, he kept quiet, trying to pull himself together enough to reply. Lusting for the bastard didn’t help.

“Stop fighting yourself,” Loki said. No, purred. An order wrapped in a deep, sensuous tone. Together, the effect mesmerized Clint.

Then Loki bent forward, tipping his head down. Those ridiculous horns glimmered, capturing Clint’s attention, distracting him. Until Loki pressed their mouths together and captured his lips in a fleeting kiss. Warm. No, hot, like fire blazing through his blood. His cock answered, immediately stiffening. Then Loki pulled back, leaving their kiss chaste, yet promising future indulgences in wicked darkness that Clint could never turn away from.

He ran one slender finger down Clint’s chest, through the remnants of come, staring into Clint as if he could see everything inside him. Clint closed his eyes, unable to bear this violation, yet desperately needing it. When Loki’s sensual touch finally lifted away, he shivered, and opened his eyes.

Loki now licked his fingertip, then slid the entire finger between his lips, gently sucking for a moment. He pulled it free, and smiled. “Rest well, Archer. We have work ahead of us.”

Then, the lights dimmed and a crack echoed through the small room.

Loki was gone. For now.

Clint collapsed back onto the bed. Shaking, elated that he stood up to the evil fucker who almost killed Natasha, yet acutely aroused by Loki’s erotic beauty and undeniable power.

He traced his fingers over his lips. Holy mother of fucking god. Even now, after everything that had happened, Loki wanted him. But as badly as he wanted the give himself, and submit to Loki, to their mutual desire, he would not yield. Not until Natasha returned to him, healed and whole.


End file.
